


Target

by hetalia_smut



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Animal Death, Drug Use, Gun Violence, Historical, Hunting, M/M, Nazis, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 11:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14212242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetalia_smut/pseuds/hetalia_smut





	Target

 

_Podmoskovye, Russia_

_14:28 MSK, 25 December 1967_

 

* * *

  

Shoe laces tangled around each other, both suffocating into a knot. He’d stopped to tie his boots, taking notice of the fresh boot prints embedded in the snow, trailing off into a thicket. They’ve been hunting before, Gilbert and him, but it still was exciting to watch him fill up with fear. The threat of death never seemed to leave the Prussian unaffected even though they both knew Ivan would not kill him this way; A simple hunt would be too easy, too boring. Gilbert deserved a much more painful death that a head shot wouldn’t deliver.

 After adequately securing his boots, he began to move again, following the tracks in the snow. His pace was relaxed, knowing he had a comfortable advantage with a scope. Gilbert couldn’t get very far in his impaired state, it was only fair to give him a head start.

 Perched in a bare tree, the small body of a cardinal sat tending to its hungry children, making it the perfect target. He’d taken the silencer off for this reason, he knew how easily startled the Prussian would be. The shot from the rifle echoed on the desolate farmland, ensuring him a psychological victory over the other. He’d have to start moving quicker now that his prey was panicked.

As Ivan picked up his pace, he thought of how Gilbert deteriorates when he’s on cocaine; high energy, high focus, his anxiety much more obvious to the world. Despite not enjoying a high himself, Ivan was always interested in observing others in a manic mindset. Hunting the Germanic was already fun but it was much more satisfying when the boy’s instincts were sharpened and his fear led him to his own downfall.

 Gilbert seemed panicked, his usual senses gone with the drugs, and had bolted blindly forward. He still had enough sense to avoid trees, but footprints were now easily visible, a trail of broken branches and muddied snow traceable. Tracking him was simple, his intelligence had become more like an animal’s than a human’s.

 Red had always been his favorite color, even before communism. It just so happened that Gilbert was red; his eyes were red and his fascism was as well. Today, the Nazi wore a red scarf, gifted to him by his hunter. Normally, the boy was intelligent enough to know that red made him a target but now it seemed to have not crossed his mind. Upon see the bright fabric, Ivan smirked, feeling something of success.

He can’t kill Gilbert. In the moment, that’s all he wanted to do, the impulse cultured by years of war and centuries of hate. He’d gotten used to killing Prussians, a skill he was proud of, but this particular Prussian had to stay alive. He’d known this when they started out but now he was so close, he didn’t want to let him live. It would be easy for him to fill the Nazi with bullets, watch his blood mix with snow, to murder the last Prussian.

But he couldn’t allow himself to kill him this way. And it made him livid.

With all the background noise of nature, Gilbert would not hear Ivan approaching, but with the gunshot he would continue forward anyways, neglecting the obvious trail behind him. The animalistic instinct was what made him an easy prey which only made him more attractive to the Russian. He watched as Gilbert crouched to catch his breath before darting forward, scarf trailing in the wind.

 The red was a crisp warning sign that he wasn’t here to observe the other, that he wanted much more than that. Raising the rifle, Ivan watched through crosshairs Gilbert bolt through the snow, mind trying to settle on the best place to wound him. His instincts to go for the chest were denied as he shifted the gun lower, focusing on the boy’s thigh. Deciding that the optimal wound would be a shot to the back on the knee, that way the Prussian would have to rely on him.

With an ear splitting shriek Gilbert fell to the earth, terror and shock initially numbing the pain that the gunshot has caused. Desperately, he tried to pull himself forward, attempting to push himself back up to his feet with his good leg. Seeing this, Ivan laughed, drawing nearer to him before stopping to judge his failed attempts at escape. “What happened? You can’t walk anymore?” He taunted, lavender eyes taking in his work. He wasn’t dead but he was pretty much a lost cause.

“Sich verpissen,” Gilbert growled in German, refusing to look towards his predator. When under the influence of cocaine, any second language was difficult to speak, even for the Prussian. He hauled himself to his knee, trying once again to stand, to run, to get away from the man who just shot him; these attempts were countered by the pressure from Ivan’s boot forcing him back onto the cold ground.

 “You are my шлюха, you speak Russian to me.” The playfulness in his tone had evaporated, leaving a chilled authority about him. He began to undo his pants, the want to dominate the other now taking over any other thoughts. “You are my шлюха that will speak Russian to me when you take my cock.”

“Ich bin keine Hure,” Gilbert responded, the pain not dulling any sharpness of his tone. Hearing the other start to strip caused the Prussian to panic; this would not be the first time he had been raped in the snow, and the fear he must have felt as a child seemed to return to him as the Russian’s threat of cock registered in his mind. “Ich bin nicht deine Hure.” He struggled, rolling out from under the boot just for another bullet to be fired into the ground next to his head. He froze, the gunshot a sound reminder of his own mortality and just how easy it was for Ivan to end it all right here.

“Are you going to be my Prussian шлюха or are you going to be a dead шлюха?” Ivan knelt, grabbing his hips to pull him back towards him. He then proceeded to push down Gilbert’s pants before leaning forward, spitting on the the Germanic boy’s entrance. “To the rest of the world you are both already, maybe I should finalize that.” He commented before entering the other without warning or preparation.

 Gilbert’s scream was loud enough to be heard for miles, ringing out in the trees surrounding them. Bent over, hips forced into the air, cold snow on his skin, it was too cold, too loud, too much for anyone to handle. “Cтоп,” he mumbled, the word too soft for anyone but Ivan to hear.

A smile glossed over the Russian’s features, he enjoyed to witness the other in pain, it was almost worth not killing him. “Cry for me.” He told the other, grabbing his hair to pull his head back.  “I want you to cry and beg for me to stop. Tell me you hurt, that you can’t take my big cock. That you’re my Nazi bitch.” He commanded, using the other hand to grip Gilbert’s hips as he began to fuck him.

“Get off of me,” Gilbert whimpered, however doing nothing to back his words with action. “Get away from me, I don’t want you to fuck me, I don’t want you. Let me go.” This only turned Ivan on more, the proud fascist begging for him to stop, being at his complete mercy. It was payback for years before the World Wars that had caused his people to suffer. His thrusts became deeper as his pace picked up, enjoying the weak way the Prussian sounded. “What are you to me? You are my Nazi Bitch. Say that.” He demanded, pulling tighter on the other’s pale hair.

The gunshot had weakened the boy greatly, the blood loss making him dizzy and nearly delirious; any attempts to push the other off went unnoticed. Words as thick as cotton, the Prussian boy whispered, “I am not yours.”

The fingers in Gilbert’s hair untangled themselves before sending a blow to the back of the Prussian’s head. Ivan wanted results and cooperation, a difficult thing to get out of the other. “Say it.” He growled, fucking him harder, nails digging into the red eyed boy’s hip.

 The hit to the head had chastised Gilbert to the point of silence, a reminder that there was a gun that would end his life if he said the wrong thing once too many times. He opened his mouth, but instead of words coming out there were soft sounds, groans of both pain and pleasure whenever Ivan moved. “I am your Nazi Bitch,” he moaned, lost for now in the brutal fucking.

The sound of the Prussian’s moans brought Ivan close, the concept of the other liking the rape was far better than what the earlier words had brought him. As Gilbert finally admitted to his given title, the Russian came, filling the other with his come. It wasn’t long before Ivan pulled out of him, doing up his pants as if nothing had happened. “We will go now.” He picked the other up and carried him bridal style, not bothering to fully redress him. “After you feel normal, you will do calculations for me. We have work to do.”

 

## Translations

Мишень - Target

Sich verpissen - Fuck off

Шлюха - Whore

Ich bin keine Hure - I am not a whore

Ich bin nicht deine Hure - I am not your whore

Cтоп - Stop


End file.
